


Lightning and the Thunder

by slavetosociety



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11496774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slavetosociety/pseuds/slavetosociety
Summary: Dean Winchester was found half starved, beaten and on the verge of death at the hands of his father, a man who had chosen to drown out his miseries in alcohol rather than father his own son.Castiel Novak was found lying on a roadside, no recollection of his past, only a dusted trenchcoat to serve as a reminder of the person he once was.Thrown together in unseeming circumstances, Dean and Castiel struggle against the weight of their past and a future that seems anything but likely.





	1. 1. The Receptionist

"May I help you?" Beverly Long lowered her glasses to inspect the male that had lumbered into the building. She has seen many men before in her lifetime, each bearing a multitude of scars and stories to tell, but never had she seen such delicacy taken in the scars that adorned his forearms and worked their way down to his hands, jagged lines that interlocked to form various shapes and names. Her eyes flickered upwards, noting that the scars most likely extended beyond visible view.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he responded, tilting his head up and squaring his jaw, instinctively adjusting his right sleeve in hopes that the motion would somehow manage to cover the obvious signs of abuse that were engraved into his skin. 

"Hello Dean," Beverly smiled warmly and handed Dean a clipboard. "Please make sure to fill out the form before your consultation."

Beverly Long was probably at the lowest point in her life. She had dreamed of making it big, moving to New York City to escape the drunken low-life that was her father. But the hometown had already staked its claim on her, and she was forever to serve as the receptionist for Perce's Therapeutics, a state-funded counseling group for children that came from the lowest of the low. 

Dean stared at the paper for a moment, the last box in particular catching his eye. In 500 words or less, he was somehow expected to detail the last seventeen years of his life. "Please try to be specific," he read aloud the last line sarcastically, flashing his signature cocky grin ag Beverly's way. She could only offer him a sympathetic smile before looking back at her work.

The Winchester, it seemed, was a naturalist when it came to writing. She would glimpse up from time to time, amused at how overtaken he had come to filling out the form and she couldn't help but wonder of his past, the individuals stories for each and every scar that covered his body.

"Done so soon?" she asked with a slight grin as Dean handed her back the clipboard. It was not true, however. Beverly was surprised by how long he had taken, a full hour doing nothing but writing, erasing, writing again, erasing... Dean said nothing but only replied with another one of his trademark grins before sitting down in a chair directly across from her. His green eyes blazed with some defiant fury, demanding Beverly to read what he had written, to delve into his past that he had seemed to keep hidden for so long.

Her eyes skirted through the generic information, listing his address, date of birth. And finally she came across the last paragraph, the one part of the form Dean had labored over and over on, determined to capture in every detail the likeness in which he had grown up in.

"When I was four years old..." She paused midway through the first sentence, attempting to comprehend what she was reading. Dean continued to stare at her, his watchful gaze. unwavering all the while. "My father, John Winchester, grabbed my mother and staked her to the ceiling and lit her on fire."

Beverly raised her hand to cover her mouth, an attempt to stifle the horrified gasp threatening to escape. She forced herself to continue onwards. "There was no way to prove that he had been the one to kill her since the entire house burned down. My mom and little brother Sam both died in the fire.

"Shortly afterwards, my dad began to blame my mother's death on demons. He took me out of school for months on end and I sometimes believed him, until he tried to exorcise my fourth grade teacher. He tried to torture her, splashed her with holy water, and that was when I realized how far he had gotten. There were no demons, except for the ones in his mind.

"After the incident, Dad turned to beer for consultation. It was better than the demons, I suppose, but when he got really angry, he would take out his belt..."

The paragraph ended there, no words to continue on the story. Beverly knew there was more, more unspoken horrors that were to forever go unheard, buried deep within Dean's mind. She had read many stories in her time, the delusional works of mental patients who were afraid of the monster under their bed and other imaginary creatures that went bump in the night.

But for Dean Winchester, his demons had been real. His demon had strung up his mother and lit her on fire, beaten him into submission...

The door to her left opened, the doctor welcoming Dean in. She gave him a warm smile before turning to see another man who had entered, looking quite lost to the word. "Sir?" she asked once and when he was still lost within the confines of his mind Beverly repeated once more. "May I help you?"

This seemed to snap him out of his daze and the man slowly walked over. "Do you need help with anything?" she asked, her mind still attempting to piece together the tragic nature in which Dean Winchester had grown up in.

"This is a place of help and safety, is it not?" The man cocked his head to one side.

Beverly nodded. "Would you like to schedule a free consultation?" she asked, reaching behind to retrieve another clipboard. The man was once more lost in his own mind, staring at another fixed point only he could conceive.

"Sir," she snapped, losing her patience. The man shifted his focus to the clipboard, smiled apologetically and began to fill out the form. Unlike Dean Winchester, he seemed lost, unsure of who he was and how to even begin to describe himself. 

After a long while he slid the form back to her. Beverly's eyes darted to the very first line where he had spelled out his name in careful print.

"Castiel Novak? That's a nice name."


	2. 2. Scars and Stripes Forever

"Dean Winchester?"

"That's my name," he replied gruffly, not bothering to look at the woman who sat across from him, her eyes seeming to pick apart his entire existence. Her eyes would occasionally flicker down to the multitude of scars on his arms and neck, curiosity wondering what other signs of abuse was hidden beneath his clothing. 

"You have quite an interesting story," she began, licking the tip of her thumb to sort through the various papers that had been collected for him. "We'll start by talking about your father," the woman set the folders down next to her and leaned over, staring at Dean expectantly.

He tensed immediately at the mention of his father, or the sorry excuse he had for one. A father was a man that went to your baseball games, had the occasional beer or two, but he was always there. John Winchester had never been there for Dean, not even the slightest. The man had found himself in prison more times than he was at home, with a bail so large it usually ended up with the two of them homeless by the time he was released.

But no matter what, no matter the whippings and the drunken rages, Dean Winchester could never bring himself to fully hate his father. Not present in mind, no, John had never been there. But physically, at least he had a father, a man he could point out in the crowd, someone to go home to, someone who put food on the table, even if it was dug up from the neighbor's trash can. 

"He was..." Dean paused for a moment. The English language was tricky in instances like these, when the mind searched for a adjective to contain a series of thoughts and ideas. Was there even a word to describe his father? "He was a good man."

This seemed to catch the therapist by surprise. "Your papers suggest otherwise and..." Her eyes flickered down to the scars on his arms and Dean found himself adjusting his sleeve once more, a habit he had taken to out of embarrassment. She took a moment to recollect herself. "Sure, he was certainly a character," she laced the words together slowly, still trying to comprehend how Dean had even the slightest of willpower to defend the man that had so brutally abused him. "And your father..."

"Dead," Dean relayed the words in monotonous voice, any thoughts or emotions simply void to him. It had been simple, humorous, even. John had left him, drunk out of his mind, to hit the road on some 'hunting trip' as his father had partaken to calling it, investigating some homocide in Indiana, claiming it to be the work of the demons that had killed his mother. He didn't even make it onto the interstate before a truck slammed into his car, killing him instantly.

The doctor stared at him expectantly and when she realized that she was going to get no further information, she let out a long sigh. "Every Wednesday, you will attend the group sessions at 4:00 p.m, understood?" Dean said nothing, fiddling with his thumbs. She let loose another impatient sigh. "These meetings are court-ordered, Mr. Winchester - "

His head snapped up so suddenly that the therapist did a double-take, almost falling out of her chair in the process. "Please..." Dean whispered, immediately regretting the look of fear he had caused to reflect in her eyes. It was a look he was all too familiar with, having seen it in the mirror each morning. "Just call me Dean," he forced a smile on his face and laughed slightly, hoping that this would calm the mood. 

"Dr. Perce," she nodded and extended her hand, Dean giving it a firm shake. "I look forward that we'll see you on Wednesday." Dean only gave her a half-hearted smile before walking out the door, bumping into a man on his way out.

"Sorry," he mumbled and continued walking, not bothering to look back at Castiel, whose eyes were trailing after him, looking lost in a dream.


End file.
